Here began our first experience of the hospitality of the sons, or rather daughters, of Virginia.

A small farm-house stood near the bridge, numerous cows were grazing in the pasture close by, and everything denoted a home of comfort and plenty.  This, I thought, must be the home of some F.F.V., and I will take a pail—­or rather camp kettle—­and ‘sarah forth’ to buy a few quarts of milk.  Wending my way to the house, I knocked at the door, and instantly six female heads protruded from the window.  Presently one of them, an elderly woman, opened the door, and inquired what I wanted.

‘Have you any milk to spare?’ I said.

‘I reckon,’ replied the woman.

‘I would like to get a few quarts,’ I said, handing her my kettle.  I took a seat on the door-step, and wondered what these six women were doing in this lonely spot.  They evidently lived alone, for not a man was to be seen around.  The table was spread for dinner, six cups, six plates, six spoons, and no more.  I was about to ask for the man of the house, when the old woman returned with my kettle of milk.

‘How much?’ I asked, as I thrust my hand deep into my pocket, and drew forth one of the few coins it was my fortune to possess.

‘Only four bits,’ said the ancient female.

I thought milk must have ‘riz’ lately, but I paid the money and left.

From observations since taken, I infer these six women were ’grass widows,’ whose husbands had enlisted in the rebel army, and left them behind to plunder the Union troops by selling corn-bread and milk for ten times its value.

I took a seat on a log, and congratulated myself on the prospect of a good dinner.  By the aid of a stone I managed to crumble ‘two shingles’ of hard bread into a cup of the milk, and then, with an appetite such as I never enjoyed in America, sat to work.  I took one mouthful, when, lo! the milk was sour!  Hurling cup and contents toward the hospitable mansion, I fell back upon my regular diet of salt pork.

Leaving the Virginia damsels to plunder the next regiment of Federals that came along, we were soon once more on our way, and on Saturday, the 1st of June, arrived at Clarksburgh.  Here we learned that the rebels had left Grafton and gone to Phillippi, some twenty miles back in the country.  We remained at Clarksburgh until Sunday morning, when, once more stowing ourselves ‘three deep’ on flats and stock cars, we proceeded as far as Webster.  Here we left the railroad, and pursued the rebels afoot.

Webster is a big name, and there we flattered ourselves we could get some of the comforts of life.  But once again we were doomed to disappointment.  Two stores, a dozen or so of shanties, and a secession pole, make up this mighty town.  Parkersburgh is a ‘right smart place;’ Clarksburgh ‘isn’t much to speak of;’ the only thing of interest about it is the home of Senator Carlisle; but Webster is a little the worst place I have ever seen.  I am sorry to say, in the language of the great man whose name it bears, ‘It still lives.’